


WiP Amnesty: LotRiPS

by Sinful Words (MontanaHarper)



Category: American Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Community: wip_amnesty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-17
Updated: 2008-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Sinful%20Words
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For anyone who doesn't know, <a href="http://wip-amnesty.livejournal.com/profile">wip_amnesty</a> is all about letting go of never-going-to-be-finished stories. In the words of comm mod Madelyn: "post snippets or fragments or whatever you have of those stories that are just never going to do anything or be finished on your harddrive--the things you just sigh at and say, okay, YOU WIN. ALSO I DON'T LIKE YOU ANYMORE SO THERE, and such."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> Anything in brackets is notes to myself. I do this all the time when I write, but usually the only people who get to see it are my betas. *g*
> 
> Each "chapter" here is a separate WiP.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah/Orlando. I'm not really sure anymore where I was originally going with the addiction metaphor. Perhaps Elijah getting addicted to/obsessed with Orlando? Who knows.

Elijah doesn't get Frodo's motivation. He's talked with Peter and even heard theories from most of the cast, but he still doesn't really get it. Andy's heroin comparison makes the most sense, but he hasn't been able to translate that from an intellectual concept to a gut-level understanding because he's never been _that_ addicted to anything. Okay, so he's far happier after his morning coffee and he gets a little itchy without a cigarette break, but he's pretty sure he could quit either of those -- and stay quit -- if he had to. After all, lots of people are ex-coffee drinkers or ex-smokers. No one is an ex-heroin addict.

Unless you go through that Russian surgery Elijah remembers reading about, a procedure that disconnects the part of your brain that makes you addicted, and Elijah thinks that elective brain surgery is a little drastic, even to cure an addiction.

He'd never go that far.

But then he's back to the fact that he's never _had_ that kind of killer addiction, so he's not sure _what_ he'd do to get rid of it.

Eventually, he comes up with something that works for his motivation: a combination of how he feels first thing in the morning, before either caffeine or cigarette fix and the last time he had the flu, and that's working. Or at least Peter seems happy with it, and that's the really important thing.

Still, it nags at him, that feeling that he's faking it much more than usual, much more than he's happy with.

~ * ~ * ~

The bar is crowded and loud and Elijah is usually in his element in that kind of environment, but tonight it's just all wrong. Dom is intent on pulling -- and he's almost sure to be successful, something that confuses Elijah more than anything because Dom isn't particularly handsome -- and Billy's playing darts with Viggo, and Orlando is moving on the dance floor, being shared more or less equally between Miranda and Liv.

And Elijah is sitting at a table littered with half-full glasses, mutilated beer mats, and overflowing ashtrays, wanting nothing more than to go home. Not home to his [apartment], but home to L.A., to Mom and Hannah and the overcast gloom of a California winter.

But he's stuck here for probably another year, [four thousand] miles from everything familiar and comforting, working with a group of -- admittedly incredible -- people he doesn't really know.

"What [brilliant/intellectual/etc.] thoughts are running through that little hobbit brain of yours?" The familiar voice is unexpectedly close to his ear; he hadn't even seen Orlando come back to the table.

"Home," he answers without thinking. He's been trying to make them all forget that he's the youngest, and admitting to being homesick isn't going to help his cause, but it's too late now, with the words already hanging in the air between them.

Orlando's smiling, though, a warm and genuine grin that seems to be as much a part of him as [?]. "Feeling a bit like a stranger in a strange land, eh?" he says, and then, without waiting for a reply, continues, "Come on, then. Let me show you something."

Elijah's going to say no, going to insist that he needs to head home for the night or up to the bar for another drink or anything that'll keep Orlando from feeling sorry for him, but the words stick in his throat at the sight of Orlando's grin, at the warmth of Orlando's fingers as they curl around Elijah's t-shirt-covered biceps, and he finds himself moving in the direction of the door, not really sure when they stood up or whether he settled up for his portion of the bar tab.

Not that the last matters; Billy keeps track of all that and will no doubt let him know in the morning if he owes anything. It's kind of odd, Elijah thinks, how stereotypically Scottish Billy is about things like that -- he's got penny-pinching down to an art form -- but he's probably the most generous man Elijah's ever met. He'd give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, but hound you for weeks about fifty cents you'd borrowed for the vending machine.

Orlando's dragged him out of the bar and over to his beat-up red jeep, and Elijah's barely noticed a moment of the journey. He gets in, more curious than reluctant now.

As Orlando climbs into the driver's seat, Elijah pulls out his cigarettes and raises an eyebrow in Orlando's direction.

"Only if I can [bum/cadge] one."

Elijah lights two at once and passes one over.

The trip is fairly short -- more because Orlando drives like a maniac than because of any lack of distance to their destination -- and Elijah is mildly surprised when they pull into Orlando's driveway. He tries to shoot a questioning look in Orlando's direction, but Orlando is either not paying attention or deliberately ignoring him. He considers worrying for a moment, but everything is far too surreal and he really wants to follow along and see where it's all leading.

It turns out not to be up to the front door, but rather around the side of the house and through the increasing resistance of the soft sand that makes up Orlando's backyard.

At the edge of the tide line, Orlando drops suddenly to the ground, dragging Elijah to sit cross-legged beside him. Elijah opens his mouth to complain, but Orlando's fingertips against his lips silence him.

"Close your eyes and take a deep breath," Orlando instructs. Elijah complies, feeling like he's doing exercises in a method acting class taught by Dali. "What do you smell?"

"The ocean," Elijah answers, suddenly bowled over by the overwhelming briny smell of the salt water.

"Just like home, yeah?"

And it is. It's very much like home in fact. He opens his eyes and stares out at the waves glittering icy silver under the low-hanging moon. The same moon that shines on [Santa Monica beach], he thinks, realizing that he's not really so far away from home. He turns to say something to Orlando -- maybe to tell him of this epiphany, to thank him for being the catalyst -- but the words vanish, taking with them his breath.

The planes of Orlando's face are limned in silver and black, light and shadow, making him look more like a marble statue than a living, breathing man. He's staring out at the ocean, his expression as wistful as Elijah felt back at the bar. By the time Elijah's remembered how to breathe the moment has passed and Orlando is looking expectantly at him so he pushes all the questions into the back of his mind and tries to remember what he wanted to say.

"Do you do this often?" he asks, and those aren't quite the words he had intended to come out, but they'll do.

Orlando's expression turns wry. "Too often, probably. I had no bloody clue what I was getting myself in for when I took this job."

Elijah is relieved that he’s not alone in feeling a little out of his depth. “Me either,” he admits, looking at Orlando out of the corner of his eye.

Orlando looks surprised. “But you’re experienced, man. You’re Hollywood.”

Elijah has to laugh at that. Yeah, he’s been working in Hollywood for a decade, but this is something entirely different. This isn’t Hollywood, it’s New Zealand. It’s bigger than big, but it’s also very small-town, and Elijah’s not sure how to deal with that.

Orlando seems to be expecting an answer, though, and probably a coherent one, too. Elijah’s not sure he can come up with one — at least one that doesn’t make it all too obvious how young and inexperienced he really is when it comes to things like being away from home and from his family — so he just shakes his head and looks back out at the crashing waves.

A strong finger under his chin turns him back to face Orlando’s questioning gaze.

“I’m okay,” he says, a little breathlessly because Orlando’s fingertip is still pressed lightly against his skin and it’s almost like there’s an electric current running between them.

*

[It is a beautiful thing, golden and shimmering and smooth, and Frodo could live the rest of his life doing nothing other than admiring its perfection.

With one tentative fingertip, he strokes the sleek surface of the ring, letting its whispers flow over him like [?]. Low and seductive, the mutterings contain no recognizable words, yet the meaning is plain as if it was [the common tongue]; it is his and his alone, his precious.

How could anyone even contemplate destroying an object of such beauty? It would be sacrilege, a monstrous act of [vandalism].]


	2. Conquest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah/Orlando/Viggo, historical-ish a/u

The battle has been long and difficult and there have been times Orlando has been sure his soldiers will collapse from exhaustion and the war will be lost. Each time, though, they rally for him--though whether they're responding to his encouragement or to Elijah's overwhelming optimism he's not certain. Maybe it's a combination of the two.

Orlando himself has been close--too close--to giving in, surrendering, on more than one occasion. The only thing that keeps him fighting, keeps him spurring his troops on in the face of what appear to be insurmountable odds, is Elijah. If Orlando surrenders, custom dictates that he must also offer his life to the opposing general, and Elijah has sworn upon his unsheathed blade to die with Orlando.

Orlando can't let that happen.

He rides through the ranks of soldiers, shouting encouragement to his men and insults to their enemies, swinging his sword in a wide arc around him and letting his mount's battle spikes inflict damage where he cannot.

The sun is just beginning to drop behind the western hills when Orlando hears a shout go up behind him. He guides his horse around and the first thing to catch his attention is a fluttering white shape.

It is a flag of surrender.

Striding toward him through the mud and gore of the battlefield is a tall man, his uniform dirty and damaged but obviously that of a wealthy officer.

Orlando dismounts, watching with pride as his troops remain wary and on guard but respect the white flag. They are well-trained, honorable soldiers, but they are also devoted--both to their cause and to their leader--and they make him proud.

When the tall stranger finally stands directly in front of him, Orlando can feel the tension radiating off the soldiers closest to him. Out of the corner of one eye, he sees Elijah's lean form tense, his hand on the hilt of his sword, waiting. The man draws his sword in one smooth motion and Orlando's pleased to see a dozen blades at his neck in the space of a heartbeat.

The stranger merely reverses the weapon in his hand so that the blade runs along the underside of his arm and the hilt is held out toward Orlando.

"I offer you my life," the man says, his words almost too soft for Orlando to hear, "to secure the lives of my troops."

Orlando reaches forward and takes the sword from his hand; the blades at his throat are lowered as those wielding them take a step back. The man drops to one knee, head bowed before Orlando, obviously awaiting the killing blow.

But Orlando looks over and catches Elijah's gaze already on him. He raises one eyebrow and Elijah slowly nods.

"Your life is mine," Orlando says loudly, his voice pitched to carry across the silent battlefield, "and I will spare the lives of any under your command who turn and walk away _now_."

The man looks up at him, clearly surprised, but Orlando can't tell whether the surprise is at Orlando allowing his troops to retain their arms or at Orlando having spoken at all instead of merely beheading him as was customary.

Orlando meets his gaze. "You," he says more quietly, "may stand. I have accepted the offer of your life and have, accordingly, shown mercy toward your soldiers. You are now honor-bound to act upon my order and _only_ upon my order."

The man's eyes widen for a moment and Orlando wonders if he is going to speak, to challenge Orlando's right to choose enslavement of his rival rather than death. Then the man's head bows and he says, "Yes, my lord."

Orlando smiles. It was an impulsive decision and he wasn't sure the man would accept it, that he wouldn't force Orlando's hand until Orlando had no choice but to kill him. Orlando finds himself relieved at the man's acquiescence.

He whistles and his mount steps forward. In one quick movement he's on her back, and he reaches a hand down to pull Elijah up behind him.

~ * ~ * ~

"What's your name?" Orlando asks.

"Viggo." The man keeps his head bowed this time.

It's Orlando's turn to be surprised now, that a man strong enough to lead an army should be so easy to tame. He looks over at Elijah, who stopped pulling his boots off and is staring at Viggo, Orlando's surprise mirrored in his expression.

"Viggo." Orlando tries out the name, finding that it rolls smoothly off his tongue. "Do you understand your position here?"

Again, Viggo's voice is so soft that Orlando barely hears his response. "I offered my life to you and you have claimed it. Honor dictates that I serve you. I will do whatever is required of me, my lord."

Now Elijah's looking at him instead of Viggo, and there's a question in Elijah's eyes. Orlando knows they need to talk--alone--so he says to Viggo, "You will find clothing in the next tent and once you have cleaned and dressed yourself appropriately, you may eat. I trust you can find the cooking fires on your own and feed yourself?"

"Yes, my lord." Viggo bows low and then turns on his heel and ducks out through the closed tent flap.

Elijah whistles softly once Viggo's gone, and goes back to removing his boots. "Well, I wouldn't have expected that," he says, and Orlando can't help but agree with him.

"Do you think he can be trusted?" Orlando asks, pacing the width of the tent. Elijah has a keen eye and is a good judge of character. "Or was it a mistake to spare his life?"

Elijah shakes his head. "No, not a mistake. He's an honorable one. The captive's bonds may begin to chafe at him--and soon, if I'm correct--but I think we're merely risking outbursts of temper rather than actual revolt."


	3. Games: I've Never

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be one in a series of stories where the LotRiPS guys played various drunken party games and had sex. It really didn't go anywere, sadly.

Elijah looks around the table. Ian has had significantly fewer drinks than the rest of the fellowship; apparently he didn't have a wild youth--or at least not a wild youth that included extreme sports.

With a grin, he looks directly across at Ian. "I've never slept with a guy."

He's startled when at least three different voices call out, "Clarification."

"I've never had..." a pause to phrase it as precisely as possible for his purposes, "intimate sexual relations with a guy."

Unsurprisingly, Ian drinks. That was, after all, the point of the exercise. What _is_ surprising is the fact that Dom and Viggo also drink.

Elijah sits there with what he knows is a stupid, stunned expression on his face until, from beside him,


	4. Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah/Orlando. This actually didn't have a title, but the file name is "Sick," so I figured that was good enough.

When Elijah wakes up Saturday morning, his throat is sore, but he convinces himself it's just too many cloves and too much drunken carousing the night before. By lunch his teeth are chattering and Pete has noticed that he's pale under Frodo's pancake.

"Elijah," Pete says, steering him by the elbow off the set. "Go home. Get some rest so you won't be a zombie on Monday."

Elijah laughs because he thought Pete _liked_ working with zombies, but he goes obediently to get his prosthetics removed and by the time he's done there's a taxi waiting to take him home.

Home.

It's not really home, Elijah thinks as he digs in the medicine cabinet for something that will make him feel better. He finally finds a travel-size bottle of Tylenol and gulps down the remaining two tablets with a cupped palmful of tap water.

He knows there's other things he should do, but he's cold and he's tired and so he kicks off his sneakers and crawls, fully dressed and shivering, into bed.

The next time he opens his eyes, the bedside clock says he's been asleep for a little over an hour. Gingerly, he rolls over, his neck and back aching as if he'd slept in the same position all night instead of for just an hour. His throat is burning and he wants water, but he'd have to get out of bed for that and he's just too fucking cold and sore to even think about moving.

He wants his mom. She'd bring him water and chicken broth and find him medicine that would help, except she's in California and he's in New Zealand and that's just too far away. He thinks about reaching for his cellphone and calling her, but he'd have to move for that, too, so he doesn't.

When he opens his eyes again, it's dark out and he thinks he's been asleep for a few hours but he can't quite remember what time the clock said before and his contacts are blurry because he's not supposed to be sleeping in them.

He hears a noise in the other room and decides that must be what woke him. Burglars. Or maybe trolls, come to sit on him or eat him. He can't imagine being sat on or eaten would feel worse than he feels right now, so he takes a breath, getting ready to call out a hello to whoever is banging around in his kitchen.

Only it comes out as a whimper instead of a word.

The hall light goes on and a head pokes around the doorway. Elijah thinks he should recognize the person, but his brain is as fuzzy as his contacts and so it's not until the head speaks that he gets it.

"You okay, Elijah?" Orlando's voice asks.

Elijah wants to answer, wants to say that no, he's not okay, he wants to die, but instead another of those whimpers comes out.

Orlando comes into the room now, sits on the edge of Elijah's bed, and he looks strange in the mostly dark.

"Can you sit up?" he asks.

This time Elijah doesn't even try to answer, but instead pushes the blankets down and struggles up onto one elbow. "Ow. Fuck." Words! Except they weren't the words he was going for, because he doesn't think Orlando can translate them into something that means Elijah wants water.

"Here," Orlando holds his hand out and Elijah stares at it for a minute. Finally, Orlando sighs and reaches for one of Elijah's hands, dropping something into it and then closing Elijah's fingers over it. "Let me get you some water."

And apparently there is a God, because Orlando did understand Elijah's words and water is going to make everything better.

When Orlando returns with a cup, Elijah reaches for it and Orlando pulls back. "Hang about," he says, sitting on the edge of the bed again. "Let me help you with this. Can you take the tablets I gave you?"

Elijah stares at him. Tablets?

Orlando takes his closed hand and gently pries the fingers open. In his palm are two brown pills that Elijah feels like he should recognize.

"American painkillers, from Liv. She buys them in obscene quantities and sent a bottle over for you."

Right. Liv is a woman, like Mom, and he trusts her to know how to make it better.

Elijah tips his hand up to his mouth, feeling the pills drop onto his tongue. He reaches for the cup and Orlando helps him tilt it up, never letting go even when Elijah finally gets his fingers wrapped around it.

The pills washed down and the water soothing on his throat, Elijah turns to Orlando. "I love you, you know that?" he says. "I fucking love you."

Orlando grins at him and brushes the hair off his forehead. "I love you, too, Doodle. Now lie down and rest, yeah? I'll be here all night, if you need me."

The next couple of times Elijah opens his eyes, Orlando's there, curled up in a chair beside the bed. Elijah tries to get him to lie down--he can imagine how Orlando's back is going to hurt after a night in a chair--but Orlando just laughs and tells him to go back to sleep.

This time when Elijah opens his eyes, he's shivering and Orlando's piling blankets on top of him.

"Here," Orlando says, holding the cup of water our to him. "Take two more of Liv's tablets. They seem to have helped before."

Elijah struggles into a half-sitting position, his head simultaneously spinning and throbbing. "Worst fucking hangover ever," he tells Orlando, who laughs and hands him some pills. Elijah downs them quickly, his throat protesting every inch of the way.

He's still shivering the next time he opens his eyes, and this time Orlando isn't in the chair by the bed. He doesn't know why, but this makes him want to cry. It's not until cool fingers brush tears from his cheeks that he realizes Orlando's in the bed with him.

"You were gone," he whispers, then closes his eyes and is almost asleep again when Orlando replies.

"Never. I'm here."

Elijah doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with the thermostat, but the whole apartment feels like a fucking sauna. Irritably, he pushes back the stack of blankets that are piled on top of him and starts to fumble with the button and zipper on his jeans. And why the fuck is he wearing his jeans to bed anyway?

He's got the jeans kicked off and is working on his shirt when hot fingers catch his hands and stop him.

"You might want to reconsider that, mate. Likely you'll be freezing your arse off in another few minutes."

Okay, so why the fuck is Orlando in his bed, telling him not to get undressed? More importantly, why was he even thinking of getting undressed with Orlando in his bed?

"Why the fuck are you in my bed?" he asks, deciding to start with the simplest question.

Orlando--fucking bastard--laughs. "What happened to 'get into bed before you totally fuck up your back sleeping in a chair'?"

Oh. Well, that makes sense. He would offer his bed if the alternative was Orlando's back getting fucked up. Of course that doesn't answer any of his other questions.

"Why are you here in the first place," he asks. "You think I'm too much of a fucking baby to handle a hangover on my own?"

Orlando snorts loudly. "If this were a hangover, I'd leave you to suffer on your own, mate, trust me. You're sick. Pete sent you home early."

Oh again. Now he feels like a total asshole.

"So you've been, what? Taking care of me?" He carefully squashes down every negative reaction, making sure that the question comes out as neutral as possible.

"That's about it, yeah. Mostly making sure you take the tablets Liv sent over and drink water."

"And crawling into bed with me," Elijah adds, not quite sure why it's such an important point.

"Relax, man. I don't have designs on your virtue," Orlando says and Elijah feels...something that's not comforted. "You were still shivering and there weren't any more blankets. I thought maybe a little extra body heat...."

Elijah yawns, then winces at the burning in the back of his throat. A cup of water is in his hand before he even realizes he's reaching for it. He grins as he hands the cup back to Orlando.

"Thanks," he says, and means it.

"Yeah, well just see that you don't wake up a wanker the next time, right? Or I'll go home and let you fend for yourself."

He _thinks_ Orlando is joking, but he makes a mental note to be nice because he doesn't want to risk Orlando going away and leaving him alone because he's starting to feel like someone worked him over with a big stick.

The dream is a pleasant one, or at least his cock thinks so because he's hard and slick and pushing against warm, yielding flesh and it feels so fucking good that he's going to come any second now.

"Elijah?"

He freezes, but it's too late; he can't even keep silent as he comes. Lying there, eyes squeezed tightly shut and still shuddering with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his memories of the past day flood back. Elijah wonders if he can blame this latest social faux pas--getting off by rubbing against his unsuspecting best friend, for fuck's sake--on being sick. The germ-infected kind of sick, as opposed to the kind that makes you want to fuck your best friend, who just happens to be a straight guy.

"Elijah?" Orlando says again, and Elijah doesn't know how to respond. He wonders if this counts as losing his virginity.

And he must really be sick, because he doesn't mean to say those words aloud but still somehow they come out, in something that sounds like his voice except deeper, the way he's going to sound when he's forty and has twenty plus years of a two-pack-a-day habit behind him.

Orlando--the fucking _rat_ bastard--laughs at him again. Elijah reaches out and punches him, the blow glancing off Orlando's shoulder and probably hurting Elijah's hand more than Orlando.

"Fucker," Elijah says, rolling away and off the edge of the bed, catching himself just in time to stumble to his feet instead of falling down.

He makes it to the bathroom, leaning against the wall of the hallway for a second when blackness threatens to drag him under. Slamming the door behind himself, he turns on the shower--cranking the temperature up as hot as he can stand it--and pulls off his disgusting boxers and t-shirt, dropping them on the floor.

It's not until he's already in the shower, forehead against the cool tile and scalding water running down his back, that he realizes he forgot to lock the door.

"Go the fuck away!" he says as loud as his raw throat allows.

The door closes, but he can still see Orlando standing in the middle of the room, the frosted glass of the tub enclosure twisting his form into something seen in a funhouse mirror.

Elijah turns and leans his back against the tiles. "I said fuck off." His legs don't want to hold him up anymore and he slides down the wall until he's curled into a ball at one end of the tub. He tries one last time. "Orlando--"

The door slides open. Orlando is kneeling outside the tub, a large bath towel in his hands. "Are you about done in there?" he asks as if nothing strange had happened. "Or do you plan to use up all the hot water in New Zealand."

Elijah's not sure whether he wants to laugh or cry; he thinks maybe he's not strong enough to do either. He could just sit here and drown. That wouldn't take much effort, would it?

But Orlando's shutting off the shower, leaning into the tub to wrap the towel around him and help him stand, and Elijah just goes with it because it's easier than fighting him. It's never worth it to try to fight Orlando.

"C'mon then," Orlando says soothingly. "Let's get you dried off and back to bed, shall we?"

Elijah wants to protest, wants to say that he doesn't need Orlando touching him or taking care of him, but he can't seem to get the words out past the ache in his chest.

"D'you think you could eat some chicken soup if I made some?" Orlando continues and Elijah remembers wishing his mom were here earlier, remembers thinking that she'd do everything he needed to make him feel better. Now here was Orlando, doing all those things and all Elijah did in return was come all over him and shout at him.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, not sure his voice is even going to work at first. "Orlando, I'm sorry." Stronger the second time and Orlando folds his arms around the towel-wrapped Elijah and doesn't answer.

Once Elijah is tucked back into bed--sans clothing this time because he's now too fucking hot and can't his body just figure out what fucking temperature it wants to be and stick with it?--Orlando asks about the soup again, disappearing into the kitchen when Elijah says he thinks he could eat something.

Which leaves Elijah with nothing to do but stare at the ceiling, catalog the ways in which he feels like death on a hotplate, and think about what happened earlier. Molesting Orlando. It sounds like the title of a particularly cheesy movie of the week, and the thought makes him want to giggle.

Except that he feels like a washcloth that's been overenthusiastically wrung out; his limbs are weak and the mere idea of moving is just too fucking much to contemplate.

When Orlando comes back in with a mug of chicken noodle soup, Elijah tries to sit up but everything spins a little too much and he drops back against the pillow, dizzy and miserable. Orlando sets the mug down on the nightstand and leans forward, arms held out.

"Come on, then. Let me help you."

He lets Orlando pull him up into a sitting position and tuck pillows behind him until he's propped securely up. When Orlando sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for the mug of soup, Elijah feels like he needs to say something--anything--to clear the air between them.

He opens his mouth, not sure what he's planning to say. "Does that count as waking up a wanker?" And he giggles as he hears what his brain apparently decided was an appropriate apology.

Orlando freezes and for a second Elijah thinks he's really fucked up, thinks maybe Orlando had decided they were going the route of _pretending it never happened_ and why had he even brought it up? Jesus, some days he's such a fuckhead.

Then Orlando's moving again, bringing the mug around to put it in Elijah' hands. "The bit where you were humping my leg, or the bit after, when you tried to drown yourself?" Orlando asks casually, his gaze fixed on the mug rather than on Elijah's face.

Elijah can't blame him; he's been watching Orlando's hands and shoulder and anywhere that doesn't mean he has to meet Orlando's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, intentionally vague about what he's apologizing for. It's for whatever Orlando needs it to be for.

Orlando shrugs, an almost overly casual shift of shoulders that leaves Elijah wondering if he's done or said the wrong thing again.

"Thanks for the soup. It's really good. And thank you for sticking around to make sure I don't die." He tries to put as much sincerity into it as he can; he really does appreciate everything Orlando's done. It helps a lot, not feeling alone.

Orlando shrugs again, and this time it's the natural, flowing movement Elijah's used to. "If you died, we'd have to break in a new Frodo. And think of the months of shooting that'd be wasted."

Elijah grins and takes another sip of the soup. The warmth soothes his throat a little and eases a knot in his stomach that he hadn't even realized was there.

"So you're sticking around, then? For the good of the movies, of course," he asks, because it's suddenly really important that Orlando be there when he wakes up the next time. When it looks like Orlando's hesitating, he adds, "I'd promise not to molest you anymore, except I don't know that I could keep that promise. What with the fever and delirium and everything."

"No," Orlando starts before Elijah can babble more, "it's okay. It wasn't your fault and I'm not going to hold it against you."

And the mental images that swirl around Elijah's brain are completely out of fucking control and when had he developed this so-secret-even-he-didn't-know-about-it thing for Orlando?

But he nods like everything is okay, and finishes the soup because the sooner he's well the sooner he'll have full use of his brain back and then he'll be able to figure out what to do about this whole fucked-up situation.

And Orlando's in bed with him again the next time he wakes--far enough away for safety, or maybe just far enough to avoid Elijah's furnace impression, which is going full blast (no pun intended). Elijah realizes he's thrown off all the covers at almost the same instant he realizes Orlando's awake and watching him, and he goes through half a dozen emotional responses to that before settling on _fucking hell, why does my cock keep doing this shit to me?_

Before Elijah can say anything, Orlando blinks and rolls away, standing up on the far side of the bed. Elijah scrabbles to pull the sheet over himself as Orlando asks, "D'you need anything? More water or soup or...?"

Elijah swallows and the burn in his throat is worse than he remembers. "Water," he says, and his voice comes out sounding almost strangled.

By the time Orlando comes back with a fresh cup of water, Elijah's assorted aches and pains have chased away the last vestiges of his arousal and the only thing he's excited about is the prospect of a drink. The water helps some, but it also burns going down. On the plus side, he doesn't feel nearly as feverish or out of it as he felt earlier.

Once Elijah's demonstrated that he's capable of holding the cup on his own, Orlando sits down in the chair. "I called Pete," he says softly.

Fuck. Elijah tries to remember if there's anything--a morals clause or anything--in his contract that would let (make?) Pete fire him over this. He can't believe he was fucking stupid enough to get himself in this position. He's always liked to think of himself as pretty smart and self-aware, so to have this sneak up on him isn't just embarrassing, it completely shakes his worldview. What else doesn't he know about himself? Is he subconsciously crushing on any of his other costars? Maybe he's got some weird "invalid" kink, where being sick and taken care of is a turn on--

He realizes that Orlando's looking at him expectantlyt. "Sorry," he says, wondering what he missed. "I was...thinking. What did you say?"

"I said that I'd called Peter." Elijah's stomach lurched. Oh yeah, that's right. He wonders which--the morals clause or the sexual harassment aspect--will be the official reason cited for firing him.

"He's sending the doctor round," Orlando continues and Elijah's confused. Why would they need a doctor? Had he somehow hurt Orlando? Other than maybe


	5. Wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah/Charlie Hunnam. Watersports.
> 
> Uh, yeah. So this was the second story in a kink series I was writing about Elijah and Charlie during the filming of _Hooligans_. It was an attempt to write a kink that I don't have and see if I could make it sexy, but I pretty much failed to write it at all, sexy or otherwise.

Elijah's not sure what to expect the next day on the set, but Charlie doesn't act any different than usual, and Lexi looks disapprovingly at them both but changes the shooting schedule for the next couple of days to take advantage of the authentic cuts and bruises they're sporting.

Elijah figures that--for the moment, at least--as long as Charlie's happy not talking about it, he's happy not talking about it, and so it's business as usual, including an invitation from Charlie to go to the pub that evening and get blind drunk while watching the match. Charlie calls it a "time-honored English tradition" and Elijah accepts without hesitation.

Once they're there, the alcohol starts kicking Elijah's ass hard and fast, as usual; he'd never consider getting this fucking trashed anywhere but in the company of a friend, and despite (or maybe because of?) what happened last night, he trusts Charlie implicitly to keep him from fucking up too badly.

He remembers their conversation turning to porn, remembers comparing notes on movies with really fucking nasty stuff--some nasty-hot and some just plain nasty--and then he remembers being in a black cab with Charlie, nearly in Charlie's lap, being manhandled into the elevator (lift!) and finally into his hotel room, where he's dropped unceremoniously onto the floor.

"Charlie," Elijah says, laughing at the taste of the name on his tongue.

Charlie, who'd turned away--maybe to leave and maybe just to shut the door, Elijah's not sure--looks back over his shoulder. "Yeah?" he says, his voice deeper, rougher than usual, and suddenly the fucking entirety of yesterday is right there, in the room with them and Elijah's more sober than he was just a couple of minutes ago.

"Sit down," he invites, patting the floor next to him, and Charlie grins, pushes the door closed, and then drops down beside Elijah.

"You've actually done it, though, haven't you?" Elijah says. At Charlie's confused frown, he clarifies, "Porn, I mean. Or close enough." Even Elijah's surprised at the words as they come out of his mouth, because he's been carefully avoiding bringing that up since he met Charlie, and this is probably the absolute fucking worst time he could've said something about it.

He half expects Charlie to hit him--and wonders if maybe that wasn't his subconscious' intent--but instead Charlie laughs.

"Yeah, I reckon you could call it that. Pretty scandalous in its day, too. The Beeb wouldn't even touch it. Russell was lucky Channel Four was looking to show just how 'edgy' they were."

"Have you ever watched the finished product?" Elijah's not even sure where he's going with this; he only knows that he's fascinated with the idea and has been since he looked Charlie up on IMDB before leaving LA.

Charlie doesn't seem to mind, though, because he says, "Once. I don't really fancy seeing myself on telly." As Elijah opens his mouth to ask why, Charlie continues, "In anything, really. I can't help but think how I ought to have delivered the line or moved or...." He shrugs and laughs. "I might be just a bit of a perfectionist."

"So it's not because of the subject, then?" Elijah ventures, knowing--even as drunk as he is--that it's dangerous territory.

Charlie looks slyly at Elijah from the corner of his eye. "What, snogging blokes?"

Elijah nods silently.

"A bit, yeah. Seeing yourself in bed with another bloke, both of you starkers, is--"

"Disconcerting?" Elijah interrupts.

"Yeah." Charlie's eyes narrow. "What would you know about it? There something on your CV I don't know about?"

The idea makes Elijah double over, caught up in a serious case of drunken giggles. "Sure," he chokes out after a minute, tears streaming down his face, " _California Catamites_ in 1999 and _Hollywood Boywhores_ in 2000."

And then Charlie's laughing, too, and it's getting hard for Elijah to breathe and his bruised ribs ache and he's _really_ glad he doesn't tend to puke when he's trashed because now would be exactly when that kind of shit would happen.

"Seriously," he says once the laughter has died down, "it's not what _I've_ done, it's the fan shit." He looks over at where Charlie's lying on the floor beside him, staring at the ceiling.

Charlie's forehead furrows and he repeats, "Fan shit?"

"You mean you've never seen it?" Elijah raises his eyebrows. "Oh, you've _got_ to see this!"

He drags himself up off the floor and over to the desk where his Powerbook is plugged in. Flipping it open, he clicks on the link for the Theban Band website and waits as Charlie stands, looking over his shoulder at the screen.

"Bloody hell!"

Elijah laughs. "It's pretty freaky, isn't it? I can't believe you haven't seen this shit before. Hang on," he says, clicking on another link, "it gets better. That was just our characters. This," he points to the screen, where a very graphic photo of him and Dom is slowly loading, "is all about _us_."

"So the rumors are true, then?" Charlie says, grinning.

Elijah catches himself, stopping the joking punch before it really starts, because he's not entirely sure he wants to have a repeat of yesterday, despite how certain he'd been while standing in the bathroom of his trailer, looking at his blood-and-spunk-covered t-shirt.

So he turns back to the computer and pulls up Google. "What was the name of your character in _Queer as Folk_?"

"Nathan."

He types in 'nathan' and 'queer as folk' and 'slash' and hits enter. The results fill the screen in seconds and he clicks on the first one. "Hey," he says, "a video!"

Charlie watches silently as the music and images play out, telling a story that even Elijah gets despite never having seen the show.

"Wow," Elijah says when it finishes. "That was really...." He gropes unsuccessfully for a word that's not _hot_ or _sexy_ or _porny_.

"You think so?" Charlie's looking at him now and his expression makes Elijah's stomach knot up and his cock throb.

Elijah changes the subject slightly. "Did it make sense to you? I mean sometimes they take things completely out of context and," again he searches for a word, but this time for one he's read in online discussions of fan creations, "recontextualize them to tell a new story."

Charlie shakes his head. "No, that was pretty much how it went. Me and Aidan snogging and fucking and dancing. Me being heartbroken when Aidan snogged, fucked, and danced with other blokes. But he never could stay away from me for long."

Elijah's not surprised. Charlie's definitely hot--and was even more so when _Queer as Folk_ was filmed, with something about him that was simultaneously strong and fragile. The fragile's not there anymore, but he's still strong and fucking gorgeous and why the hell are Elijah's thoughts going off in that direction again?

It's time to distract himself and his bladder's been clamoring for attention for a few minutes, so he says, "I'm going to the loo. I'll be right back," and heads for the suite's luxurious bathroom.

Where Charlie pushes the door open behind him as soon as Elijah's closed it, and Elijah looks up from the buttons on his jeans, surprised.

"I was thinking--"

Elijah steps in before Charlie has a chance to finish. "Bad idea when you're drunk, man." He saw the look on Charlie's face when they were watching the music video and really doesn't want to know what he has in mind.

But Charlie continues as if Elijah hadn't said anything, "--about those pornos you were talking about earlier."

That's not at all what Elijah expected him to say, so he's at a loss for words for a second. To cover his confusion, he says, "Great. But can we talk about this _after_ I take a leak?"

And Charlie smirks at him and suddenly he knows exactly where the conversational train is headed and he's not at all sure he wants to ride.

"That'd kind of defeat the purpose, now wouldn't it?" Charlie says, tugging his t-shirt off over his head and dropping it to the floor, and Elijah's frozen in place, jeans half unbuttoned, and he can't seem to tear his eyes off Charlie, who continues, "Pretty fabulous tub, that." He nods at the four-person Jacuzzi tub on the other side of the room.

"It is," Elijah agrees, amazed that it comes out sounding so calm and matter-of-fact. Because there's very little drunk left now and Elijah's trying desperately to wrap his brain around the fact that Charlie seems to be suggesting they re-enact a fucking golden shower scene from a porn movie.

While his brain is still having trouble with the concept, though, Elijah's cock isn't--and that may be the deal-breaker right there, since there's no fucking way he can piss with a hardon. By the time he's worked that out, though, Charlie's got his own jeans unbuttoned and is standing right in front of Elijah, reaching out to cup his hand over Elijah's cock.

The pressure is just right and Elijah closes his eyes without any conscious intent, focusing on the feel of Charlie's fingers slipping inside his boxers and wrapping around his cock.

Then Charlie's turning him around and pulling him back, one arm wrapped around his chest, and whispering in his ear, "Open your eyes and watch this, mate."

Elijah does as he's told--the hand on his cock overwhelming any inclination to question Charlie's right to give orders--and finds himself facing the full-length mirror on one wall of the room. Charlie is standing behind him, holding him with one large hand pressed flat against his chest and the other disappearing into the front of his jeans.

Charlie pushes Elijah's boxers down in the front, hooking the elastic under Elijah's balls and the pressure makes him think of cockrings and then he's even harder, because it's turning out that nothing is simple or vanilla when it comes to Charlie, not even the inside of Elijah's head. And it's so fucking bizarre to feel the things Charlie's doing to his body and simultaneously watch it happening in the mirror--like some kind of fucked-up visual echo.

"I was a lot like Nathan," Charlie says softly into Elijah's ear, his left hand sliding down Elijah's chest only to slip under the hem of Elijah's t-shirt and ruck it up on the return journey. "I was young--only eighteen when we started shooting the first episode--but I knew what I wanted and was cocky enough to convince folks that I knew more than I did in order to get it."

Charlie's breath is ghosting, hot and damp, past Elijah's ear and he's only half listening to the words as Charlie's right hand slowly strokes his cock. Almost too slowly, like Chinese water torture or something, and Elijah's starting to get impatient now, starting to really need an increase in the pace.

But Charlie is still speaking. "Eighteen's about how old you were when you started work in New Zealand, innit?" he asks.

Elijah nods, not trusting his voice or his ability to formulate a coherent sentence.

"Don't imagine your first day included a passionate snog with a bloke you'd only just met, though."

"Not on that movie," Elijah manages, sounding more breathy and sex-kitten than he'd like, "and not on the first day. And, actually, not on camera, either. But it was a fucking hell of a lot more than a snog."

Elijah's left his arms at his sides as he tries to be passive, to just let Charlie touch him, but now he touches Charlie's bruised and battered knuckles. "A fucking hell of a lot more," he repeats, and meets Charlie's gaze in the mirror.

Charlie smiles a crooked smile that makes him look more [?] and less intense but Elijah's not sure _he's_ any less unnerved because the whole situation--yesterday in his trailer and today with the kinky proposition--is just a little more fucked up than Elijah thinks he wants to deal with.

Except that he hasn't said no, has he? He's standing here, leaning into Charlie, feeling the hard length of Charlie's cock against the small of his back and the slow, erotic glide of Charlie's fingers on his cock.


	6. Renewed Acquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elijah/Tobey Maguire. Once upon a time I wrote a first-time RPS story set during the filming of _The Ice Storm_. This was supposed to be the sequel.

The thought first occurs to Elijah at the DGA Awards, as he periodically catches sight of Tobey across the room or up on stage, presenting. They never get within ten feet of each other that night, though, and so Elijah puts the idea aside. If they're meant to hook up again, it will happen; if it doesn't happen, then they obviously aren't meant to hook up again.

It's a fabulous piece of circular logic.

* ~ * ~ *

In the excitement of the evening--eleven fucking Oscars, and he can hardly believe they did it--Elijah has completely spaced that he meant to find Tobey and at least say hello, so he's surprised when he looks up at the touch of a hand on his shoulder and into blue eyes.

"Tobey!" he says, the excitement in his voice genuine as he stands up and throws himself wholeheartedly into a nearly mutual hug. "It's been years, man. You look great. How are you doing?"

Tobey laughs a little and moves Elijah away, not quite to arm's length but definitely out of groping range, and Elijah reminds himself that things are different with other people, that the casual familiarity and touches that are commonplace among the hobbits are considered invasive by the general public.

"I'd be doing better if we were taking home one of those," he nods at the cluster of Oscar statuettes in the middle of the table, "but I guess this isn't a good year to be in a movie that isn't _Lord of the Rings_."

There's a hint of bitterness to Tobey's words, but mostly what Elijah hears is humor and he's relieved. "Oh, but you've got _Spiderman 2_ coming up, and that's totally cool," he says enthusiastically, having long ago come to terms with his inner geek.

Tobey's eyes widen. "Don't tell me. You have an action figure of me at home."

"He sits on my dresser and if he's really good, I let him play with my Frodo figure," Elijah tells him with a wicked grin. He'd forgotten how much fun it could be to flirt with someone outside his little insular group; now that he's remembering, he thinks it could become an addiction.

But before Tobey can reply, before Elijah can find out if the flirting is going to be mutual, he feels a light touch on his arm.

It's [ ].

[ ]

"I'm staying in my my mom's guest-house. As a matter of fact, I lived there until just recently and it's still pretty much full of my stuff; home away from home, you know? We can go hang out there and catch up." Elijah looks at Tobey, trying to gauge his response. "If you're interested," he adds, with a hint of raised eyebrows.

[ ]

He leans up--not too far now, because he's grown a couple of inches since he was fifteen--and kisses Tobey lightly. "I could always return the favor," he says with a wicked grin. But Tobey's looking dubious, and that's the last thing Elijah wants, so he changes tack. "Or, we could do pick-ups of our last scene together, now that I've got the experience to do my own stunts."

And that has Tobey laughing, which is what Elijah's going for.


End file.
